


Military Grade Steel

by SadButNotDestructive



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, although not full-blown Tuckington, it was definitely written with the two in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 23:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10797084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadButNotDestructive/pseuds/SadButNotDestructive
Summary: Kimball wants her Captains to fully commit to the New Republic's cause. Tucker is less than pleased with the implications.Occurs between Seasons 11 and 12.





	Military Grade Steel

“ _This is fucking bullshit_.”

If Kimball was surprised by Tucker’s comment she had the sense not to show it. She just stood at the head of the table, silent and emotionless behind her helmet. After all, the past few weeks had been lessons in ignoring Tucker’s outbursts of untargeted rage. Every day that passed without news of Wash and the Reds had put him further and further on edge. Palomo had tried to “help” by telling him that no news is good news. But Tucker understood that no news could also mean that his friends were fucking dead, and he really couldn’t handle that shit. So when Kimball had called the Captains into the war room for an early morning meeting he had been giddy at the prospect of hearing something, _anything_.

But no. That would have been asking far too much. When they walked in to meet her there had been no comfort, no illusion that things may ever return to some semblance of normal. Instead what they had found were four sets of brand new dog tags laying on the war room table. Kimball hadn’t even said anything when they entered, measuring their reactions to what she no doubt considered a gift. And she seemed perfectly content to stand there all goddamn day.

So it was just as Tucker had said: _fucking bullshit_.

“Yeah, I’m kinda with him on this one,” Grif yawned, lazily swinging his new tags from one finger. “Are you going to just stand there, or did you actually have a reason for dragging us out bed?”

Simmons turned towards Grif, no doubt ready to launch into a lecture about respecting superiors, but Kimball held up a hand. The Captains turned to her expectantly, eager for some kind of explanation. After another moment of silence Kimball took a deep breath and began.

“I called you all here this morning to ensure that you were properly outfitted with your dog tags.” There was a forced lightness to her tone, and the slightest hesitation as she chose each word carefully. “Since you all will be going out on missions soon, I felt these tags were a necessary precaution. In the event of injury they will provide our combat medics with the basic information needed to stabilize you until we can transport you back to the medical bay.”

“Uhhh, I’m pretty sure we all know how dog tags work,” Simmons said, shifting uneasily. He held his tags at arm’s length like they were going to bite him.

“Of course we do!” Caboose chimed in. His tags were held close to his helmet as he tried to read the text. Or he was trying to will himself into remembering how to read, anyway. “But, ah, for people who may not exactly know, would you mind, maybe, explaining it one more time? Using small words? And pictures? Pictures are very helpful.”

“Shut up, Caboose,” Tucker sighed. His own tags had remained untouched before him. He eyed them warily, a strange panic building in his chest.

Not once had Tucker ever seen a medic check a soldier’s tags before treatment. Even when he was in “real” combat out in the desert the medics could have cared less about a soldier’s blood type or their history of immunizations. Any wound not immediately lethal would be treated with a disinterested shrug, some biofoam, and a swift slap on the ass with the instruction to “walk it off.” Granted, every medic that Project Freelancer had provided their Simulation Troopers had been about as useful as a blunt knife. But why should he expect anything to be different now?

So Tucker could really only think of one other reason for their new tags.

“Look, if you need to identify our bodies, don’t you think the armor color would give it away?” He gestured to his aqua armor, painfully vibrant underneath the artificial lights. “We’re not exactly blending in out here.”

“Wait, who said anything about dying?” Grif’s voice held a high-pitched note of fear. Suddenly the tags were a lot less appealing, and he tossed them back onto the table. They made a horrific scraping noise as they slid across the metal surface towards Kimball.

“We’re at war, dumbass,” Simmons snapped. “The risk of dying is kind of a given.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a risk for us. We’re too important! Besides, I don’t remember ever saying that I was gonna die for this army!”

“And _that_ ,” Kimball interjected, “is why I felt it necessary to give you these tags.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Grif and Simmons exchanged a look. Caboose tilted his head curiously at Kimball. Tucker could only stare at the tags in front of him, trying desperately to suppress the urge to punch something.

So that’s that, huh? Apparently it wasn’t enough that the Reds and Blues had been roped into fighting for the New Republic. As if they had even had a fucking choice in the matter. And now? _Now_ they had to agree to lay down their lives for a cause that wasn’t theirs.

“Fucking bullshit,” Tucker muttered, turning to leave. A voice at the back of his mind screamed that he was being childish, that he had to face this, but he ignored it. He hadn’t signed up to be a leader, to be some source of flimsy hope for a group of kids. All he wanted to do was stand around and talk to his friend, talk to Wash, but instead he was stuck here being asked to die in another stupid war.

“Captain Tucker, please.” There was the slightest hint of desperation in Kimball’s voice. Tucker didn’t care. He just had to get out of that room, away from those stupid tags. But his determined walk towards the door did little to stop the General from pleading her case. “I understand that you may have some hesitation to take these tags. After all, they are an official recognition of your rank and affiliation with the New Republic. And that affiliation does come with certain risks.”

“Yeah, like death,” Grif snorted.

“ _However_ ,” Kimball continued, ignoring Grif’s comment, “you have already recognized that this war is not simply ours anymore, it is yours as well. The Federal Army made certain of that when they captured Agent Washington and the rest of your friends. And without our help, without the New Republic, I doubt you will _ever_ see them again.”

Tucker paused in the doorway, her words settling down around him. She was right, of course. They needed the New Republic behind them if they were ever going to have a shot at a rescue mission. On their own the Simulation Troopers were just broken remnants of the corrupt Project, practically useless without a Freelancer to guide them. And Kimball was offering them an army, with the all resources that came along with it. So she had every right to want some kind of commitment from them.

And it pissed him the fuck off. Because the anger was easier to deal with than the fear and panic brought on by the realization that he was helpless.

“Look,” Kimball sighed, “I’m not telling you to take these tags. And I’m not asking you either. I just… I need you to understand how much of a difference you are making here. But it’s not enough. Your squads have to see that their Captains stand with them. They need to know that you are men worthy of their trust.”

_I don’t want these kids to trust me_. The thought ran across Tucker’s mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. Instead he took a shaky breath, letting some of his anger dissipate into the air like smoke.

When Tucker turned a shock went through the room. Kimball straightened, bracing herself for the inevitable onslaught of crude insults. Simmons and Grif pressed themselves against the wall, moving away from the action and dragging the oblivious Caboose with them. The big blue idiot was trying to put his tags on, completely missing the fact that the chain wasn’t supposed to fit over his helmet.

But Tucker ignored all of them, moving across the room and wordlessly snatching his tags off the table. He marveled at how lightweight they were, how fragile they felt in his hands. The tags seemed more like glass than military grade steel. But he would take them all the same.

He would take their trust if it meant saving his friends.

He would fight this war if it meant saving Wash.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is part of a larger (still unfinished) work written for [littlefists'](http://littlefists.tumblr.com) #TuckingtonForeheadTouchingWeek2K16.  
> It was originally posted [here](http://sadbutnotdestructive.tumblr.com/post/150752676825/military-grade-steel) on Tumblr.


End file.
